


If You're For Real and Not Pretend

by yesdrizella



Category: Venture Bros
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesdrizella/pseuds/yesdrizella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Shore Leave and the Alchemist have a sexy party, start a business, and dance to the beat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're For Real and Not Pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written as a Yuletide Treat. Follows the events immediately after "Operation P.R.O.M." Numerous pop culture references abound, including _Married...with Children_ , _Saved by the Bell_ , and _The Fly_. Title taken from the song "Hang with Me" by Robyn. Not exactly relationshippy, I know, but I hope it counts!

“I tell ya, Alcatraz, it isn’t a homeschool prom till a bunch of good-time gals turn Jeff Goldblum on us!”

The last of Rusty’s mutated escorts dropped by Al’s feet, courtesy of Shore Leave’s exquisite aim. He used defensive spells since he didn’t relish the idea of killing some poor broad whose only crime was showing up. Oh, and the prostitution thing, but that doesn’t mean she deserved to become a science experiment.

And then there was Shore Leave, all bloodied up in his nautical best and still looking like he leapt from the pages of Gay GQ. Shore Leave clearly didn’t have a problem with killing the fly girls, and Al knew it should have bothered him, but he also knew Shore Leave was only trying to save the others.

That, and the look of a good suit on a great body could blind him to a fault. Never let it be said that the Alchemist wasn’t shallow.

“I don’t know much about proms, really.” Al wiped a splatter of monster guts off his kilt. “I never went to one.”

“You’re _kidding_. Even I went to my prom. And I was _totally_ out, too!” Aghast was a good word to describe Shore Leave’s reaction. Also? Cute. Cuter than anyone with a porn ’stache had a right to be. “Of course, by then I was 200 pounds of grade-A steelcake and had a black belt in judo, so none of the football hunks ever picked on me.”

“You mean you weren’t the game-saving quarterback who also watched _Sixteen Candles_ with the popular girls?”

“Oh no way, I was a misfit.” He stroked his own tie, complacent in his nostalgia. “My prom date looked like a gothed-out Christopher Atkins.”

“Ohh, lucky!”

“And how! We ditched that scene after an hour and spent the rest of the night beasting with two backs in his dad’s Firebird.”

Shore Leave laughed, but all Al could think about was how Shore Leave provided the perfect lead-in to the question he’d wanted to ask all evening, so he went for it. “Feel like ditching _this_ scene, sailor?”

“Oh, _Al_.” Shore Leave added a Peggy Bundy affectation to his voice, which wasn’t much of a turn-on, but the kiss that followed – a full-mouthed seal, with confident pressure and just enough tongue - _that_ was a turn-on. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Shore Leave wanted backseat sex to complete the prom night motif, but they couldn’t find the limo, so they settled for Al’s Civic. Al hadn’t even grabbed his keys from the pouch around his waist when Shore Leave flattened him against the passenger side door, kissing him like a man possessed.

“Love the William Wallace look, by the way.” Shore Leave’s hand was under Al’s kilt, cupping, fondling, and Al couldn’t help but push into the unexpectedly gentle grip. “I’m a fan of easy access.”

“Figured you would be.” Al chuckled, then pulled him into another kiss, just because. “Need a raincoat?”

“You got one?”

“Glove compartment. You’ll find everything there.”

“ _Everything?_ You big slut.”

Squeezing together into Al’s back seat unfortunately proved to be a bit of a challenge, since Shore Leave’s He-man physique wouldn’t allow them to comfortably fuck lying down. Al ended up straddling Shore Leave’s lap, keeping his head lowered so he wouldn’t clonk it against the roof. Al wasn’t sure what to make of this level of intimacy, but Shore Leave cradled him close, nuzzled his ear, and when they began to move together, Al whispered a thank you for Japan’s obsession with compact cars.

Al rode him hard, with the intention of waking up tomorrow morning and still feeling the sting of friction, the soreness that often accompanied a good fuck. He buried his face in Shore Leave’s throat, certain he found Shore Leave’s sweet spot when he bit his neck vampire style and Shore Leave made a sound like coming. Al started to jerk off just as he was getting close, but Shore Leave swatted his hand away and replaced it with his own. Three tugs and he was done, making a mess of his kilt but not really caring. Shore Leave crushed him in his arms and followed soon after, and though Al could barely breathe through it, that last upward shove and his name on Shore Leave’s lips was incentive enough.

“I’m glad you’re living here now,” Shore Leave said once he’d caught his breath. “I’m surrounded by breeders at Team S.P.H.I.N.X.”

“Tell me about it.” Though he didn’t want to, Al slipped off Shore Leave’s lap and sat in the corner, trying to get comfortable again. “And have you been around the neighborhood? There’s nothing open after 8:30, not even a Starbucks.”

“I would pay good government money for a dance club around here.” Shove Leave yanked off his condom and tossed it out the window. He tucked himself back into his pants as he continued, “Maybe we can refashion one of the older buildings on the compound, get a liquor license, add a few strobelights, some streamers, and boom! The hottest club in the most boring neighborhood on the West coast.”

Al rested his hand low on his belly, and he smiled, entertained. “I’d invest in that. What should we call it?”

“How ‘bout The Attic? Or is that too high school sitcom?”

“Like that episode of _Saved by the Bell_? Yeah, we can come up with a better name.” Al stared up, out the window, wondering if the sky or the stars or whatever mystical force propels the universe forward would inspire him. And then-- “I got it! The Boom Boom Room. It has alliteration _and_ it rhymes.”

“Now _that_ I like. But who should we play? Preferably no one from the Psykopathic Records Family.”

“Beats me. My CDs are under the driver’s seat, if you wanna take a look at ’em.”

“You have CDs? Do you churn your own butter, too?”

“Don’t be a smartass, sailor.” Al yawned and slouched as he began to feel the effects of post-sex exhaustion: a bleary-eyed sleepiness that encouraged him to curl up on his side. He would love to go another round, but twenty years and a body that’s seen better days wouldn’t let him, at least not right away. Shore Leave didn’t seem to mind, which he appreciated.

Al opened the eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed when Shore Leave gasped and squealed in that sassy/manly way that only he could pull off. “Get out, you listen to Robyn?!”

Shore Leave held Al’s CD holder in his lap, and Al noticed that he’d stopped on a disc with the words “Robyn Mix” written in black Sharpie ink. “Oh, that. My ex burned it for me. I meant to listen to it, but then we broke up.” Al shrugged. “I was a big fan of ‘Show Me Love’ back in the day, though.”

“Would it remind you of your ex if I played it?”

Al gave it a moment’s thought. His ex was a Zinn-reading vegan who looked like James Franco without the premature crow’s feet. He still wasn’t sure how he managed to score such a cutie, or how he could lose him, and he thought he had returned or thrown away everything that was his. Al looked at Shore Leave, who was waiting for a reply, and for a reason he couldn’t describe, Al said, “Nah, go right ahead.”

Al closed his eyes again, so he could only listen to what Shore Leave was up to: the rumbling sound of his engine, his headlights switched on, a CD pushed in, followed by some infectiously twee pop music. Then a hand wrapped around his own, and he heard the words, “C’mon, Al Capone, it’s still prom night. We have to dance.” The smile in Shore Leave’s voice was unmistakable.

Al hopped out of the car, rejuvenated. Shore Leave moved like an extra in a Madonna video because Shore Leave was good at everything he did, and though Al vogued more than he danced, he didn’t feel the least bit ridiculous. Three songs in, Shore Leave spun him around like they were Fred and Ginger, and Al realized that he may have found a little happiness in this miserable world.

They were swaying in place to an acoustic ballad, arms around each other, when Al said, “Don’t put me in the Mind Eraser again.” The ‘please’ went unspoken.

“I won’t,” Shore Leave replied, his smile still in every word. “I want you to remember this.”


End file.
